


Life's Been Good To Me So Far

by LadyChi



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Excessive Cursing, F/M, accurate representations of the lifestyle of certain types of professional musicians, everyone drinks, everyone smokes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:57:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1211845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyChi/pseuds/LadyChi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title from the infamous Joe Walsh song about the joys of rock stardom.</p>
<p>Five years ago, Oliver Queen's band, Arrow, was at the top of their game, but a tragedy cut their career short when Oliver put the band on immediate "permanent hiatus". Now, after five years, they've decided to make a return to the music industry. Felicity Smoak is a lackey at DC Records, but she's building her resume and her contact list and plans to be running the company by the age of thirty. </p>
<p>Provided Oliver Queen doesn't get in her way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Just Walked In To Find You Here

**Author's Note:**

> This Rockstar AU was inspired by the goings-on at Tumblr. It will be stupidly long, I am sure. We're making up this one as we go along. I have a general plan but no specific outline.

Felicity Smoak threw her car in park and took her sunglasses off of her face, sliding them back into their case and replacing them with her cat-eye pair. As she got out of the smart little Mini Cooper she had worked so long and hard to afford, she started to give herself a pep talk. “You are an industry professional,” she said, straightening her skirt. “You are here to make sure that Mr. Queen fulfills his contract. No more, no less. There will be no mentioning of the fact that you used to have a poster of him on your dorm wall or that his abs were very formative in your sexual development. Because you are an industry professional.”

 

Feeling secure in her goal, Felicity checked herself one last time in the side-view mirror. First impressions were everything, and she needed this to go well. Mr. Steele was entrusting her with her first major assignment, and she got the feeling that it was one set up by her supervisor to ensure failure. Felicity wasn’t sure what she would find when she knocked on the door of the Queen mansion – perhaps her nerves were all for naught and she’d find him in some kind of drugged stupor, like some of the other musicians she’d worked with who, for all their talent, couldn’t escape the allure of a break with reality.

 

And if that was the case, Felicity told herself, she would deal with it. Because that was her job. Dealing with things. And drunken rockstars. But not forever. She’d work her way up the business ladder at DC Records, and someday she could send some other twenty-something to wrangle aggravating rock stars.

 

Eight years ago, Oliver Queen’s band, Arrow, had been the newest thing to come out of the Starling City garage band scene. Their sound had blended the best of the punk and pop sounds to create something that had been ear-catching. They had exploded onto the music scene, winning a Grammy for their self-titled debut album. They released a sophomore effort just a year later and then after a whirlwind tour, Oliver Queen had shut the whole thing down. Without any explanation at all, the band went on a “permanent hiatus”.

 

But now, five years after his announcement, he’d decided to come back. The music world was practically frothing at the mouth to hear what they would come up with next. Felicity Smoak counted herself in that category – but Oliver was more than three hours late to their first recording session, and it was Felicity’s job to collect him and make sure they at least started the process of laying down some tracks today.

 

The studio’s interest in Arrow was in making sure it remained a money-making machine for DC Records, and Felicity Smoak was going to do her best to quell her nerves and stand her ground.

 

She raised her hand to knock on the door and it swung wide open. There stood Oliver Queen – older now than she remembered – his trademark floppy blond hair cropped military-short, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and he was not, Felicity realized very quickly, wearing a shirt.

 

“Hi, I’m Oliver Queen.”

 

“Oh my God.” Felicity closed her eyes and took in a deep breath.

 

“Listen, if you want an autograph or whatever, I don’t usually do that when people drive up to the house. No hard feelings or anything, right?” He went to shut the door.

 

“Mr. Queen, you’re late!” Felicity shouted, startling both of them. “Sorry, wow. That was really loud. I just didn’t want you to slam the door in my face. I kind of have a thing about doors being slammed in my face. Literally and figuratively.”

 

“Okay.” Oliver took in a deep breath. “Let’s start at the beginning. My name’s not Mr. Queen. That was my father, and he’s dead, so call me Oliver. I’m going to guess you’re from the record company?”

 

“Yes. Absolutely. Very good.” Felicity nodded. “I’m from the record company. I’m here to remind you of your scheduled recording session with…”

 

“Well, then, they sent you all the way out here for no good reason.” Oliver stepped back and gestured inside.

 

“Has something changed? I mean – I don’t have a lot of power but if something has…”

 

“I want Quentin Lance.”

 

“Whoa.” Felicity pushed her glasses up her nose. “Um – he’s a very busy guy and he’s very selective about the projects he takes on these days and not to be a total stickler, but you did, you know, sleep with both of his daughters, so…”

 

“Mr. Steele knew I had no intention of coming back to the studio if things weren’t exactly the way I wanted them, and I want Quentin Lance.” Oliver’s voice was calm, reasonable. “The fact that he sent a pretty blonde to try and convince me otherwise is insulting to both you and me.”

 

“ _Hey._ ” Felicity took a step forward. “He _sent_ me, you misogynistic ass, because it’s my job to treat spoiled brat rock stars with kid gloves and get them to do what they were contracted to do in the first place so if you would please _put on a shirt_ we could have a conversation like reasonable human beings and perhaps I could _help you_ get what you want so that we can get this godforsaken album made.”

 

It was clear that Oliver wasn’t used to people addressing him with that level of… honesty. He took a step back and gestured inside. “What, do you find me distracting like this?”

 

“I think I can say with reasonable certainty that everything straight, female, and human with a pulse would find you distracting like that.”

 

His lips twitched and for the first time, he smiled. It looked like an expression that wasn’t quite at home on his face.

 

“Here. Just – there’s a lounge over here,” Oliver said, gesturing inside. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll try to make myself presentable.”

 

Felicity looked down at her watch. “I’ll call the studio, tell them we won’t make it today. Shall we start there?”

 

“You can tell them that we won’t make it until Quentin Lance says he’ll produce the record. Let’s start there.”

 

Felicity closed her eyes and counted to ten. “Yeah, I’m telling you now – that’s not going to happen. So we’ll start with the shirt, then?”

 

Oliver smiled at her – a kind of smile that told her they weren’t nearly done yet. “It’s a start. But if you don’t get me Quentin Lance, it won’t be much of anything.”

 

He disappeared into the house, and Felicity found a seat on one of the sofas, crossing one leg over the other and tapping her Android to life. “Mr. Steele?”

 

“Ms. Smoak, did you locate Mr. Queen?”

 

“I did. He’s been, I don’t know, running marathons shirtless or something.”

 

“The art department will be excited to hear that.”

 

Felicity chuckled. “Yeah – we’ve got a problem. He says he’s not coming in unless we can get Lance to produce.”

 

There was a silence on the other end of the line. “That wasn’t a condition of our negotiations.”

 

“Well, that’s what he’s decided he’s wanted.”

 

“We can do our best, but Lance is a hot commodity these days and he does not harbor any great love for Mr. Queen.”

 

“You British have the nicest ways to say things like ‘he hates Oliver’s guts’.”

 

“Some might argue he’s got good reason,” Mr. Steele. “Still, we’re counting on you, Felicity. Mr. Merlyn and Mr. Diggle should be there as well. They were never far behind Mr. Queen.”

 

Felicity looked around. “It doesn’t look like they’re here. It’s been five years, after all.”

 

Oliver appeared in the doorway, dressed in cargo pants and a black pullover sweater. He’d clearly grabbed a quick shower. He walked over to the sideboard and pulled out a decanter, wiggling its contents at her. Felicity had worked long enough in the music industry not to be shocked that she was being offered whiskey at one thirty in the afternoon in the middle of a work week. She shook her head, and to her surprise, Oliver nodded and reached inside the bar’s mini-fridge and took out a water.

 

Maybe she’d just passed some kind of test? She took a deep breath and counted to ten.

 

“Mr. Steele? Oliver just returned. We’re going to work something out. I’ll call you with the results.”

 

Oliver twisted the cap off of the bottle of water and poured it over ice. “You didn’t want liquor – would you like some water? There’s other things, as well.”

 

“Water is fine. It was a windy drive up here,” Felicity admitted.

 

“I find not being quite so – accessible, to be a benefit most days,” Oliver said with a rueful smile. “So. Mr. Steele, huh? He sent you personally.”

 

“He did.”

 

“You know he’s fucking my mother.”

 

Felicity nearly snorted the water he’d just handed her out of her nose. “I – would hazard a guess that he would not, perhaps, phrase it in that way…”

 

“No. But it’s the truth.” Oliver sighed. “This whole thing is just – so fucking complicated.”

 

“Do you have a manager that –“

 

Oliver’s look silenced her.

 

“Control issues, then,” Felicity muttered.

 

“No. I just want the band to stay true to the original vision of the music,” Oliver said, “and I have yet to meet a person who can help us do that. But the managing side of it has to get done so it’s fallen to… various people throughout the years. Right now it’s a young kid by the name of Roy Harper.”

 

The way he said the name made Felicity raise her eyebrows. “I’m guessing from the tone of voice that you don’t trust him.”

 

“Not any further than I could throw him, but Digg’s all about giving kids from back home a shot in the big leagues—he grew up in the Glades, you know.”

 

“I did know.” Felicity took a small sip of her water. “Sort of a misfit in such a preppy elite boys club.”

 

“Preppy elite boys club whose membership fee was shitty parenting,” Oliver corrected with a smile, “which is where Diggle fits right in.”

 

“Speaking of Diggle and Merlyn, where are they?”

 

Oliver narrowed his eyes. ‘They don’t live here, you know. We’re not frat boys.”

 

“ _I_ know that. I think there was some confusion at the label as to –“

 

“Ollie!” Tommy Merlyn’s voice echoed off the walls as the front door swung wide open. “Ollie, my man, let’s get this _show on the road!_ Hello.”

 

He paused in the doorway, a smile crossing his face. “Who might you be?” His hand was extended, his angular face was just as attractive as it had been on the posters in Felicity’s room and she reminded herself that she was a grown woman who could control what came out of her mouth, as she stood up to shake his hand.

 

“Felicity. Smoak.” She laughed nervously. “I’m from DC Records? I’m here to be your liaison between the band and the record company. I’m here to help you figure out the producing situation, and then once we get recording my primary concern will be keeping you guys happy.”

 

“Is that right?”

 

“John Diggle,” the man himself said, also shaking her hand. “Sorry about Tommy. He’s physically incapable of not flirting with blondes.”  

 

“It’s flattering, actually,” Felicity said. “I’m not uncomfortable.”

 

“I think we’ll all agree,” Oliver said, gesturing for his band mates to sit down, “that Quentin is the best fit for where we want the band to go.”

 

“The tracks we’ve been writing need his… unique touch,” Tommy said lightly, as he ignored Oliver’s offer and went to the sidebar to pour himself a drink. Oliver shot him a worried look, and Felicity made a mental note.

 

Diggle sat down and leaned forward. “We need Quentin. And he’ll admit, in an honest moment, that he did his best work with us. Oliver’s willing to do whatever it takes to get him to take the project on.”

 

“I am?” Oliver looked up.

 

“You are. We’ve been away for five years, man, and the world is fickle as fuck. We need to make sure if we do this thing, we do it the right way, and we’re all convinced the right way is with Quentin Lance.” Tommy’s voice was serious as he took a seat.

 

“You realize you’re asking me to work a miracle here, right?” Felicity said. “I mean, Oliver slept with Sara. While he was engaged to Laurel.”

 

“We’re aware,” Diggle said dryly.

 

“Lance is a smart guy. Make it about business and he should come around,” Tommy said.

 

“Okay. I’m going to do my best but I think you guys should give the new gal a shot while we wait and see if we can get Quentin to sign on to the project. She’s this hot new producer, McKenna Hall. I think you’re really going to like her work,” Felicity said, reaching into her bag and sliding a CD across the table.

 

“We’re familiar,” Diggle said, sliding the CD back. “We’ll wait for Quentin Lance.”

 

“If you don’t get to the studio and start laying tracks down, you’ll be in breach of contract,” Felicity said, spreading her hands. “The record company won’t hesitate to sue – they think they stand to make a lot of money on your reunion album.”

 

“It’s not a reunion album. People need to stop calling it that. The band never disbanded,” Oliver said. “We took a break.”

 

“Right. Okay. So. Not a reunion album.” Felicity made another note. “Well, there’s nothing else I can do for you here. I’ll call you tomorrow with news.”

 

“We have faith in you, Felicity Smoak,” Tommy said with a wink. “Don’t you dare let us down.”

 

**

 

Felicity got out to the car and dialed a number she knew by heart. The last project she’d helped with had been the debut album of a new hip-hop wannabe. Overall, it hadn’t gone far, but its title track, “Thrasher”, had spent some time on the charts, thanks to its producer, Quentin Lance, who wouldn’t have been involved at all if she hadn’t called him. Since he’d made a fair bit of money on that project, he tended to pick up the phone when she called.

 

“Ms. Smoak,” Quentin said, his whiskey voice sounding pleased to hear from her. “What intriguing thing do you have on offer today?”

 

“Arrow.”

 

“I ought to hang up on you right now.”

 

“No, I know, but please, just… hear me out,” Felicity said. “I promise I’ll make the pitch worth your while.”

 

**

 

Oliver reached for his guitar and coaxed a few notes from it, the melody to an old familiar hit unfolding underneath of his fingers.

 

“Hey man, you okay?” Tommy asked, his eyes closed. He’d worked his way through half a bottle of Scotch, but it was the anniversary of Rebecca Merlyn’s death, and Oliver tended to give him a free pass on those days.

 

“I’m not the one that’s drunk at four thirty on a weekday,” Oliver said.

 

“No. But you were bordering on rude to that lady from the recording company.”

 

“Felicity.”

 

“Yes. Her.”

 

“I just want to do this right, Tommy. If we’re going to do it for Thea, then everything has to be just right.”

 

“Hey, do you want to talk or…”

 

Oliver ripped through an augmented chord and let the dissonance ring in the air. “I don’t want to talk. I want to write. And then I want to be done. Maybe then her ghost will leave me alone.”

 


	2. oh, i wish that i had jesse's girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blame this on all of Tumblr. You are all responsible.
> 
> I hope you're happy. :)

Oliver woke up in the middle of the night, his eyes snapping open in the complete darkness. The Queen mansion was so far removed from Starling City, the red-glow of its lights wasn’t visible from his window. So he reached over and flipped on the lamp.

 

And found Thea, sitting in his reading chair, flipping through a magazine. Twelve years old. She never grew any older, on these nights that she came to see him. She was wearing the outfit she’d died in, but her eyes were bright and clear, her freckles sprinkled across her face like it was the middle of summer.

 

“Why are you awake?” she asked, snapping her bubblegum. “It’s the middle of the night, Ollie, you should be asleep.”

 

“Yes, I should,” Oliver agreed softly. “I guess I woke up because I was cold.”

 

“Nothing I can do about that,” Thea said, shaking her head. “Comes with the territory.”

 

Oliver sighed and rolled over, reaching for his pad of paper. “Are we going to write a song tonight?”

 

“Hm. No,” Thea said. “I don’t feel much like singing. Go back to sleep, Oliver. Or should I say… wake up.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

“Because your phone is ringing.” Thea walked across his bedroom and laid a kiss on his forehead. “Wake up. It’s important.”

 

**

 

His eyes snapped open, for real this time. His phone illuminated his room, its obnoxious ringtone piercing the silence in the air. Oliver swiped the screen.

 

“Hello?”

 

“It’s Quentin Lance.”

 

“Hey.” Oliver rubbed his face. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”

 

“Listen, kid, Felicity Smoak called in a favor and I’ve been persuaded to produce this new venture of yours.”

 

“Than—“

 

“Don’t thank me. I’m not doing this for you. You burned every good bridge you ever had with me.”

 

“No, I know. And…”

 

“And nothing, Queen. You show up, you do your work, you write some good fucking material and I’ll make sure you make the album of your life. But I’m doing this for Felicity, not for you.”

 

“Good,” Oliver said, “because I’m not doing it for me, either. I’m doing it for Thea.”

 

There was silence on the other end of the line. “All right then. Just so we understand each other.”

 

“I understand perfectly,” Oliver said. “I know you’re not going to want to hear this, but thank you.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

 

**

 

Felicity pulled her hair into a ponytail and slipped her feet into high heels. She checked her phone one last time – providing everything went like she thought it would, she would spend all day at the offices of the studio and wouldn’t have to go traipsing out into the wilderness to collect sullen rockstars.

 

Her phone rang and she picked it up. “Felicity Smoak.”

 

“Where are you?”

 

“Who is this?”

 

“Oliver Queen.”

 

“Oh.” Felicity rolled her eyes. “If you got the impression that I was going to be at your beck and call, then you got the wrong impression.”

 

“No. I just wanted to say thank you in person.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Quentin Lance called me last night. He’s on board with the project.”

 

Felicity smiled, locking her apartment behind her. “Good.”

 

“Listen, I don’t want you to think I’m creepy, but I’d like to take you to breakfast.”

 

“I don’t date musicians. And I’m running late for work.”

 

“Call it a business meeting, then, and I’m pretty sure your boss will be okay with it. Because I’ve already talked to Walter.”

 

Felicity sighed. “I have to get to the office and… oh. You’re here, aren’t you? In that… truly _magnificent_ looking car.”

 

“Yes, that’s me,” Oliver said, getting out of the sleek, slate grey Aston Martin. “Feeling up to some pancakes, Felicity?”

 

Felicity bit her lip and thought for a minute. “You going to let me drive the car?”

 

“No,” Oliver said, “but I promise to take all the corners on two wheels.”

 

Felicity grinned. “Sold.”

 

**

 

He took her to a hole-in-the-wall diner and they talked music for three hours. She disclosed her unapologetic love of the Boss and he told her he’d gone through a serious Spice Girls phase – something she told him that she could hear in his music.

 

“So you went to work for DC Records straight out of college?” Oliver asked.

 

“Yeah. I had a degree in music and a degree in business,” Felicity said. “I thought it was a good fit for my talents. So did your… so did Walter.”

 

Oliver lifted one corner of his mouth in a smile. “I’m too old to have a step-father. He’s my boss, the way he’s your boss.”

 

“For what it’s worth – in my completely unasked-for opinion, I think he’s a good man,” Felicity said.

 

“I know.” Oliver picked up his coffee mug and sipped it. Clearly the subject was closed. “So – you have a degree in music, too?”

 

Felicity flushed. “Yes, I do.”

 

“What do you play?”

 

“A bit of this, a bit of that. I was uh – I was a voice major.”

 

“Really?”

 

Felicity shook her head. “I got into it because I used to be pretty awkward – well, I’m still pretty awkward, but my mom thought maybe if I got into the arts I’d relax a little bit and make some friends.”

 

“Did you?”

 

“For the most part, yeah,” Felicity said. “I’d always been a little bit nerdy, though, so I just got more nerdy about music, you know? I’d spend hours up in my room listening to stuff on headphones and reading old magazines. I went through this really intense Ella Fitzgerald phase when I was fourteen. It was something else.”

 

“It was all about Kurt Cobain for me,” Oliver said. “I must have listened to _Smells Like Teen Spirit_ a thousand times. I used to fall asleep to it, be up until all hours of the night listening to it over and over again.”

 

Felicity smiled at him. “So you really want to be a punk, huh?”

 

Oliver shrugged his shoulders. “I like to think I kept some of that edge, yeah.”

 

“Maybe mass-produced edge,” Felicity said lightly, and then flushed. “Oh god, don’t take that personally.”

 

Oliver laughed. “Are you talking about Redemption?”

 

“Yes, yes I am,” Felicity said. “I mean, your first album was great, you know? Really intensely personal and groundbreaking in a lot of ways and I mean, there was still that element of listenable pop but there was some depth there.”

 

“Yeah.” Oliver shook his head. “that was a really … intense time. When we got back in the studio, I think we were all burned out from the world tour but still really excited about it. The studio brought in this producer and he convinced us to move in a more pop direction. There are some good songs on that album, though.”

 

“No, I don’t doubt that. I mean – _On My Lips_ is just filthy but in this really great like – goes over your head if you’re not paying attention to it way. And I really like _Little Sister_. That’s a pretty good track.”

 

Oliver laughed. “I’m glad you liked it, because I pretty nearly fucked up my whole life over that song.”

 

“Oh, I didn’t realize…”

 

“It’s not a big deal, Felicity,” Oliver said. “I never sugar-coated the truth to anyone, for anyone.”

 

“So… I mean… it really was about Sara and Laurel?”

 

“It was. I was young and stupid and I just didn’t know how to handle myself and I blew a pretty good thing.”

 

“We all blow things when we’re young and stupid,” Felicity said, “most of us just don’t have them immortalized in vinyl.”

 

Oliver lifted his coffee cup in silent salute.

 

**

 

Tommy tightened his snare drum, hitting it a few more times to make sure it still got the sound he was looking for. This was an old, familiar feeling, getting set up, getting ready to go.

 

He’d known Oliver Queen all of his life: his father had made it rich while Oliver’s had never quite managed to get his career off of the ground, but they were still friends. Oliver had turned to music at a young age, and Tommy had followed. Where Oliver’s love affair had been the guitar, Tommy’s had been drums.

 

Even now his fingers itched to curl around drumsticks and beat out a rhythm. Oliver had been sending him videos of a few of the things he was working on, and Tommy was excited.

 

Most of the songs were achingly personal, but they were getting back to what he’d initially fallen in love with, the thing that had made him look at Oliver and go “fuck being a songwriter, dude, let’s take your songs and be _rockstars_.”

 

It hadn’t been quite that simple. But it was more epic when you thought of it that way.

 

“Hey,” Diggle said, shutting the door behind him and lifting Baby from her case. “How’s it going?”

 

“Good,” Tommy said.

 

“You’re here early.”

 

“Just excited to be making music,” Tommy said. It was mostly true. The fact that he was here hiding from a Jack Daniels bottle that had looked just a little too inviting this morning was secondary.

 

Besides, Diggle could see through him, anyway.

 

“Where’s Oliver?”

 

“Taking the pretty blonde chick out for breakfast,” Tommy said with a grin.

 

“Ah. Some things never change, hm?” Diggle said, lifting the pretty orange bass from her case and plugging her into an amp.

 

“Certainly seems that way,” Tommy said. “But she got us Lance, so I guess I really can’t blame him.”

 

“Good,” Diggle said, and that was it. The bass player was a man of few words to begin with, and he was an intense musician and he liked to warm up in peace. That suited Tommy just fine. He went in search of coffee.

 

And ran into Laurel Lance.

 

“Oh.” He stopped suddenly. It’d been a while since he’d seen her – in the aftermath of her explosive breakup with Oliver, he’d sided with Oliver, of course. There was no other choice. Even if his friend had been above-average on the asshole scale in those days. “Hi.”

 

“Tommy?” Laurel took a step forward like she couldn’t quite believe it was him. He rubbed the back of his head self-consciously. His hair was probably unkempt and he knew he looked haggard because he hadn’t been sleeping. At least he had showered and didn’t smell like alcohol.

 

“Hey, Laurel.”

 

“My dad said you guys were going to be back in the studio,” Laurel said, her smile a little stiff.

 

“Yeah. We’re going to try our hands one more time,” Tommy said, with a self-deprecating smile. “We’ll see how it goes.”

 

“It’ll be good. Oliver Queen may be an asshole, but he’s one hell of a songwriter.”

 

“So. Uh – what are you up to these days?”

 

Laurel shrugged her shoulders. “Practicing music law, trying to help Dad out when I can.”

 

“Uh, that’s good.” Tommy cleared his throat, looking around desperately. “Listen, I just came out here to find some coffee, so…”

 

“It’s on a side table in the reception area,” Laurel said. “It was good to see you, Tommy.” And she turned to leave.

 

Tommy wished his heart would stop racing. Nothing like living an old hit from the eighties to make you loathe your life, he thought. But man, sometimes he wished he had Jesse’s girl. Er, Oliver’s girl.

 

Who wasn’t really Oliver’s girl any more. Strictly speaking.

 

And he’d always been more of a letter-of-the-law guy rather than a spirit-of-the-law-guy.

 

Presuming Oliver was okay with it. Which – surely there would be a good time to bring up the possibility of dating his ex-girlfriend, right?

 

 

**

 

Oliver arrived last, his guitar case in hand.

 

“How was pancakes?” Diggle asked, cheekily beginning the opening bass riff of Another One Bites the Dust.

 

“It was good.” Oliver set down his guitar. “I’m ready to work.”

 

“Good,” Lance’s voice came over the speaker. “Let’s hear what you’ve got. You _do_ have something ready to show me, don’t you?”

 

Oliver nodded. “I made some changes last night, but… yeah, I think we’re ready.” He handed each of them a modified version of a song he’d been working on for weeks.

 

Across each of the top of their changes, Oliver had written one word --- _Ghost_.


	3. I Get High With a Little Help From My Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver and Felicity sing together for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being so patient with this story -- I know there isn't a lot redeemable in some of our favorite characters at present, but we'll be learning more about the initial trauma that sort of made all of this happen as time goes on. I also apologize for this chapter being short.

Felicity gathered up her things at the end of the day – her laptop, her purse, the various files that would need her attention over the evening, and flipped off the light in her very, very small office. She’d made the space hers – a framed picture of her mother playing the cello over her desk, posters of The Beatles and Johnny Cash to cover up spaces where the drywall was imperfect. She spent enough time at work, she felt like she should be comfortable.

 

On a whim, she walked by the studio. Arrow, of course, would be long gone – Quentin insisted on keeping sane hours, heading home right at five, unless compelled by an artistic demon to stay longer. But Felicity respected that the man treated the music business like a business, and refused to let its various whims keep him from being a family man and a good father. She liked to look inside the studio, though. Sometimes she snuck in and hit a few chords on the piano, comforting herself with chick rock from the nineties after a bad day, or John Lennon on a _really_ bad day.

 

She heard an appregiated minor chord on an acoustic guitar and then a subtle, soulful strum pattern picked up its rhythm. Then Oliver Queen’s voice, as clear and easy to distinguish from the pack as a bell tolling across a field.

 

“In this home I made for us,” Oliver sang, “oh, I find you everywhere – the memories don’t rust. And it’s like an echo in an empty hall, I never thought I’d lose it all.”

 

It was a heartbreaking melody. It stopped Felicity in her tracks. It was clear this wasn’t being recorded. It was too honest, too vulnerable. She would swear up and down that Oliver was crying, if she didn’t know better.

 

“Ghosts, when I close my eyes. Ghosts that make me realize that nothing, no nothing can ever replace… oh baby, I just can’t face the ghost of you.”

 

The music stopped, and Oliver’s voice rang out into the hallway. “Who’s there?” He sounded genuinely frightened.

 

“Not a ghost. Not that I’m implying that you’re seeing ghosts! Because, you know. The paranormal is largely disproven, sadly, because what a world that would be if… okay. Three, two, one.”

 

“Felicity?” Oliver sounded almost amused. “What are you doing here so late?”

 

“Working,” Felicity answered, pushing open the studio door to stand in the jamb. “Someone took me to breakfast, over my protests, remember, that I had a bunch of _work_ to do.”

 

“Ah, I remember.” Oliver strummed his guitar self-consciously.

 

“What was that, by the way? Something new?” Felicity didn’t mention that it obviously must be something new, since she’d listened to everything they’d ever released. Ever. Including their demo, which had made the rounds on the internet a few years back.

 

“Yeah,” Oliver said. “Just something I’m trying out. The guys and I are trying to figure out how to keep it honest without being melodramatic.”

 

“Hm.” Felicity crossed her arms. “Well, to be honest with you, I like it with just your solo guitar. I mean you could do some very light accompaniment stuff, but it sounds like it’s _your_ song, you know? About you. I mean, that’s the sense I get about it.”

 

“You don’t have to be afraid of being wrong, you know,” Oliver said. “Not that you are, in this case. This is my song.”

 

“About… a ghost? Or maybe an ex-girlfriend? Or maybe I should shut up.”

 

“It’s about my sister.”

 

Felicity raised her eyebrows. “Oh.”

 

“She died,” Oliver said flatly. “When she was twelve years old.”

 

“Oh, my God, Oliver, I’m sorry.”

 

Oliver shrugged. “This album is for her.”

 

“Oh, Oliver, that’s really sweet.”

 

His lips tugged upward at the corners. “Yeah, I think she’d find it sweet. Or I hope she would.” He looked slightly beyond Felicity, like there was someone there, and she whirled to check.

 

“Was someone…?”

 

“No,” Oliver said, coughing. “I was just having a thought.”

 

“What kind of a thought?”

 

“You’ve got a degree in music, right?”

 

“Yes,” Felicity said.

 

“Well, let’s hear you sing something, then,” Oliver said.

 

“Like… what?”

 

“Stevie Nicks?” Oliver asked, going right into the changes for _Landslide_.

 

“Hm, why not?” Felicity asked, letting him give her sixteen bars of intro. Then she started in on the classic. “Took my love, took it down…”

 

And watched Oliver’s eyes light up, in that way that musicians’ eyes light up when they realize they’re making music with someone who is a good fit. It had been a while since she’d sung this type of music, but it fit like an old, familiar glove, sliding into place, well-oiled and comfortable.

 

Then Oliver joined in on the chorus, his voice sliding in and around hers, weaving in and out of harmony. “Oh, I’ve been afraid of changing, because I’ve built my life around you…”

 

She liked the way their voices fit, the solidness of hers and the cutting raspiness of his. She couldn’t help the grin that crept across her face. It stayed in place until the very last beat of the song.

 

“You’ve got pipes,” Oliver said, as the last note rang out.

 

“Thanks.”

 

“And you’re not doing music because…”

 

Felicity shrugged. “My mom was a musician. So was my dad.”

 

“And?”

 

“They died young,” Felicity said, hoping he would leave it at that.

 

“Okay,” Oliver said, nodding. “I get that.”

 

“Good,” Felicity said. “So – I uh, I guess I’m going home.”

 

Oliver’s phone cut into the awkwardness between them, and he lifted a finger  to Felicity, indicating that she should wait while he took this call.

 

“Yeah?” His face slowly darkened. “Okay, absolutely. I’m on my way.”

 

“Something happen?” Felicity asked, standing up quickly.

 

“No. I hope I can get there before it does,” Oliver said, putting his guitar away quickly and searching frantically for his keys.

 

“Everything all right?”

 

“No,” Oliver said shortly. “But it will be.”

 

“Okay,” Felicity said. “I guess… I can lock up the studio for you if it’s an emergency?”

 

Oliver’s face relaxed into a smile. “That would be great. Thanks, Felicity.”

 

She smiled back and watched him go. “Not a problem, Oliver.”

 

**

 

Oliver left the studio and hopped on his bike, driving a familiar route to the little bar on the edge of the Glades that he knew Tommy frequented, and found his friend standing outside, smoking a cigarette. He killed his bike and got off of it, his breath fogging in front of him as he stuck his hands in his pockets.

 

“Hey, Oliver,” Tommy said. “What are you doing here?”

 

Oliver shrugged. “Sin saw you outside. Thought maybe you might need a friend.”

 

Tommy laughed harshly. “She thought I needed a fucking babysitter, is what you’re saying.”

 

“No,” Oliver said. “I’m not adult enough to a babysitter.”

 

“This time of year is just…”

 

“Hard,” Oliver said, reaching out and clasping Tommy on the shoulder. “I know what you mean.”

 

“I know you know. I just – “ Tommy shrugged. “It’s hard not to hate myself.”

 

“Hey. I’ve said this a thousand times, and I’ll say it a thousand times more if you need it: my sister’s death was not your fault, Tommy.”

 

Tommy swallowed and took another long slow drag on his cigarette. “So you’ve said.”

 

“So what are we going to do?” Oliver asked. “Are we going to go inside and get drunk again? Because we have to be in the studio tomorrow morning. You promised me sobriety for this.”

 

“And I’m a man of my word, Queen. Always have been. Always will be. I just want to look.”

 

“Looking leads to imbibing. I know from experience. C’mon, man, let’s go… do something else, you know? Get the bikes out, take them for a ride.”

 

Tommy sighed and dropped his head. “I’m fucking everything up again.”

 

“No, you aren’t,” Oliver said.

 

“Yes, I am, Oliver. Let me take responsibility for my fucking actions for once in my godforsaken life.”

 

“All right. What? You want me to yell at you? You want me to toss you in rehab? We both know that doesn’t work. I’m running out of options here, Tommy.”

 

Tommy dropped his cigarette and put it out with the heel of his shoe. “My father’s been calling.”

 

“Ah.” Oliver rocked back on his heels. “So that’s where this… wave of self-loathing is coming from. That’s the nice thing about mine being dead, I guess. He leaves me the fuck alone.”

 

Tommy let out a choking laugh. “Where were you?”

 

“Working on Ghosts,” Oliver said. “I think I’ve almost got it right this time.”

 

“Good,” Tommy said, and he started to walk away from the bar. “Listen…”

 

“I’ll call Dig. See if he wants to do some late night weight-lifting.”

 

“You don’t have to…”

 

“I promised you, Tommy – you stay sober, I’ll do whatever I can to help you stay that way.”

 

“All right,” Tommy said.

 

**

 

Thea sat on the kitchen counter at the Queen mansion and watched Oliver make himself a protein shake after his workout. He was methodical, her brother. Very precise as he measured out the powder, the milk, the fruit he threw in for flavor. Tommy and Dig had left just minutes before. They'd all pushed themselves to the limit. Probably to keep Tommy from drinking.

 

Thea wished she could follow Tommy home, watch over him the way she watched over Oliver. She didn't remember much about dying, but she remembered her brother holding her close, begging her not to leave him, the only family he had left in the world that he cared about. She hadn't managed to be able to stay alive, but she'd managed this... perpetually twelve, watching her brother, helping him when she could.

 

He couldn’t see her at the moment, of course. He couldn’t see her when he wasn’t asleep, or in that in-between state. But she could see him. She could see that the grief was lifting from him, a little. Something was changing. Maybe it was the music. Maybe it was the girl.

 

Felicity Smoak. Thea knew, from her trips around her brother’s subconscious, that she had made quite an impression. Thea just didn’t know if it was an impression she could allow to continue or not. Some girls got close to Oliver because they were attracted to the rockstar Oliver Queen. Some girls were attracted to the money. Some thought they might be able to save or heal or fix him. 

 

Thea was going to throw her weight behind whichever girl came along who loved her brother -- her scarred, broken brother just as he was, who could maybe persuade his reluctant face to smile every once in a while.

 

 


End file.
